Carpe Diem

by Autumn Cornwell

  6:39 a.m. Eat breakfast while perusing goals for the day

  7:04 a.m. Take ferry to school

  8:15 a.m.–3:15 p.m. High School classes—mostly Advanced Placement (5.3 is the new 4.0!)

  3:15 p.m.–4:15 p.m. Extracurricular activities

  4:32 p.m. Take ferry home

  5:30-6:30 p.m. Garden or Boggle with Mom; listen to NPR while making dinner with Dad

  6:30 p.m. Spore Family Dinner (Time to listen, time to share, let’s show we care!)

  7:00 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Hour of Reflection

  8:00p.m.–9:30p.m. Homework

  9:30 p.m.–10:00 p.m. Positive Visualization Exercises (I’m holding the Pulitzer in my hand as I step up to the podium … . )

  10:00 p.m. Lights-out

  And, come to think of it, her “Live in the Moment” shouldn’t be LIM, but LITM—if you wanted to be perfectly accurate.

  “Had you given me more advance notice,” I said, “I could have researched online and come up with a travel itinerary—”

  “Kiddo, relax. Get some sleep. You’re stressing over nothing.”

  As she opened the door, I blurted out:

  “What are you blackmailing my parents about?”

  She froze. Then turned back around to face me. Her eyes examined my face. Cocking her head to the side like a pigeon, she said, “Run that by me again.”

  “I heard you on the phone.”

  “Eavesdropping? Not very Spore-like.” But she seemed pleased.

  “I know you’re holding something over Mom’s and Dad’s heads—that was the only reason they let me come. Mom even had a nervous breakdown.”

  “She did?” She seemed surprised. “Althea?”

  “Does it have something to do with why you haven’t visited us in the last sixteen years?”

  She smiled. “Maybe I’m allergic to the Pacific Northwest.”

  “Then what’s The Big Secret?”

  After a moment, she shrugged. “Sorry, kiddo. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do,” I persisted. “Even Mom and Dad admit there’s a secret. They just won’t tell me what it is.”

  “Well, if there is a secret, what makes you think I’d tell you?”

  “So there is a Spore Family Secret that everyone’s keeping from me?”

  She deposited a half-eaten durian wedge on my nightstand and, after giving my shoulder a quick squeeze, she was gone.

  I took that as a “yes.” And as a challenge. I’d been up against much tougher questions on my practice SATs. I’d figure it out. It was just a matter of time.

  I sealed up the remains of the pungent durian in a plastic bag and deposited it out in the hallway trash.

  Even though I could barely keep my eyes open, for the next hour I completely unpacked and organized. Then I headed into the spartan bathroom to wash off my travel smell. It was completely tiled from floor to ceiling, which was smart since the “shower” consisted of a nozzle on the wall, which drenched the entire bathroom with water. Then I got ready for bed—remembering to brush my teeth with bottled water.

  After tucking my money belt under my pillow, removing my silver Latin medallion (I have written my lines for the day, Denise, thank you very much!), and inserting my retainer, I slipped between the wrinkled but relatively clean white sheets. In went my earplugs and on went my eye mask. Then I quickly sat up and clapped my white surgical face mask over my nose and mouth: Nothing would keep me from sleep tonight, not even the lingering stench of durian.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nibbling

  What better way to show solidarity and affirmation for his delightful culture than to greet the fellow in his native language? Witness the grin on his face and the spring in his step at your cheerful “Selamat pagi!” or insightful “Bolehkah anda berbicara bahasa Inggeris?”

  —The Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Malaysia

  I awoke surprisingly refreshed ten hours later and began my morning routine. Grandma Gerd was still sleeping—evident from her bed-shaking snores. Somebody clearly needed a nasal septum operation.

  VASSAR SPORE’S SOUTHEAST ASIA MORNING ROUTINE

  1. Remove sleeping attire and retainer.

  2. Unlock luggage locks.

  3. Shower.

  4. Get dressed.

  5. Insert gas-permeable contact lenses.

  6. Brush teeth with bottled water—not tap!

  7. Apply facial 45 SPF sunscreen.

  8. Apply body 45 SPF sunscreen.

  9. Put on lip gloss and foundation (with 45 SPF sunscreen).

  10. Blow-dry hair.

  11. Put on money belt—secure with safety pin.

  12. Apply insect repellent.

  13. Take multivitamins.

  14. Take malaria pills.

  15. Take charcoal stomach pills.

  16. Pause for a much-needed rest.

  17. Put The Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Malaysia, The Savvy Sojourner’s Malaysian Guidebook, and laptop into briefcase.

  18. Add camera.

  19. Add Melaka City Walking Map.

  20. Add bottle of water.

  21. Add another bottle of water.

  22. Add Kleenex.

  23. Add Traveler’s Friend Hygienic Seat.

  24. Put on buttpack containing a small amount of American dollars, emergency electrolyte packet, antibacterial soap, Handi Wipes, and more Kleenex.

  25. Lock locks on each piece of luggage and secure all of them together via cable to bed frame.

  26. Put on hat and sunglasses.

  Total Prep Time: one hour, thirty-five minutes.

  Total Weight of Briefcase: twenty-five pounds.

  While Grandma Gerd showered and dressed, I went to the downstairs lobby to type up the first couple chapters of my novel on my laptop. Typing up each day or so as a separate chapter to email my friends meant maintaining strict discipline. Especially if I was going to finish the novel by the end of the trip. Since Grandma was taking forever, I easily completed chapter one.

  Sarah realized she’d have to be especially patient with her eccentric aunt Aurora, who was unlike anyone she’d ever met. Quirky did not even begin to describe her … .

  Azizah lent me some ringgit to use at the Internet café across the street.

  “Your grandmamma always lose wallet and borrow from Azizah.”

  The café was a tiny room with four computers, four chairs, and little else. Three stations were being used by Malaysian students checking their emails before going to school.

  I already had emails in my account. From my friends:

  Denise: Nulla dies sine linea!

  Laurel: We’re charting your journey in Denise’s atlas. That way, we can experience your summer vicariously, starting with Melaka (formerly spelled “Malacca,” which I prefer. Much more romantic) to wherever you end up.

  Amber: What’s the food like? Guess who I saw at the 7-Eleven? Yep, John Pepper. Told him you were in Southeast Asia. He was impressed. :) Asked if you got malaria shots. I told him they’re not shots, they’re pills. (He bought a Snapple and a package of Cornnuts—Ranch Flavor.) Gave him your email—*grin*.

  Laurel: Let us know the second he sends you anything!

  Denise: Don’t forget to include history in your backstory for added resonance. Like: “Melaka traded with China, India, and Indonesia. Later it was colonized by the Portuguese, then the Dutch, then finally by the British. You can see the influences from all six countries on the streets of Melaka.” Let us know if you need research … .

  Laurel: Did you know that the word “amok” as in “to run amok” is Malay?

  Denise: Don’t waste time emailing us messages—just email your chapters. We’re here waiting to edit. NOW!

  And from my parents:

  Mom: I hope you can actually receive this over there in Malaysia. Are you okay? I keep visualizing you stranded on the side of the road somewhere. Has Gertrude shown up yet? You tell her she is supposed to maintain physical contact with you at a
ll times. All times! And you let us know immediately if/when you feel uncomfortable or in danger. Call us anytime! Anytime! (There’s no time like the present.)

  Dad: Vassar, please email your mother ASAP. She hasn’t slept since you called … and you know how testy she gets when she’s tired. And remember: You can’t make your messages too positive. Were all ten suitcases present and accounted for?

  I emailed my friends the first chapter. Then I emailed Mom and Dad to reassure them I was fine: I’m doing great! Malaysia is great! The guesthouse is great! Grandma Gerd is great! It was overkill, but I didn’t want Mom’s Breakdown #2 on my conscience.

  I returned to The Golden Lotus just as Grandma Gerd came down the stairs.

  “Time to hit the trail!”

  I couldn’t answer—incapable of speech. For she was wearing the green rice bag as a skirt! She twirled around so I could get the full effect.

  “A real eye-catcher, eh? I hemmed it and sewed in a waistband”—she lifted her shirt and snapped it against her flat stomach—“and voilà!”

  She looked absolutely ludicrous. A rice bag lady. “Are you sure you really want to wear that … in public?” I asked.

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, Vassar,” said Grandma Gerd. She handed me a plastic bag. Inside was a rice bag skirt just like hers—only blue with white Chinese characters and a pink lotus.

  Mom and Dad brought me up to be polite to my elders.

  “Thank you. It’ll be great for … for special occasions.”

  If Grandma Gerd saw right through me, she just smiled.

  As if I’d ever wear matching rice bag skirts!

  “You like it, don’t you, Azizah?” said Grandma as she posed in front of the counter.

  “Your grandmamma, she is very artistic genius,” said Azizah. As if she knew genius, she with today’s orange headband-blouse-nails-eye shadow combination.

  “You want one, too?” Grandma asked Azizah.

  “Please, no. I am not the rice bag shape,” she said, pointing to her ample hips.

  Oblivious to my frozen horror, Grandma Gerd headed outside. The thick, woven material didn’t give with the movement of her legs. Instead, it hung like a tube around her bottom half. Two Malaysian schoolgirls passed her, muffling their giggles. A Westerner in a rice sack! What a preposterous sight so early in the morning!

  Mortification!

  I reluctantly followed her. How embarrassing, embarrassing!

  To top it off, she was wearing her Vietnamese mollusk-shaped hat. Did Grandma Gerd know just how strange she was? Don’t odd people always think they’re normal? Like how G. K. Chesterton said a madman always thinks he’s sane. And how all madmen were missing a sense of humor. But that was just it: Grandma had a very developed sense of humor. I wouldn’t call it good per se, but most definitely there. So she couldn’t really be completely insane. Perhaps just a small thread of insanity wove through the rice bag fabric of her being.

  I guess I should be thankful she at least shaved her legs.

  After I changed some of my American dollars into Malaysian ringgit at the bank, Grandma took me to a shabby but clean kedai for breakfast. Without consulting me, she ordered two plates of nasi lemak—coconut rice, fried anchovies, peanuts, sliced egg, cucumber, chili, and curry. Not exactly the ideal way to start your day. I steered clear of the chilies and ordered a Pepsi.

  As I dug in my leather briefcase for my Pepto-Bismol, Grandma asked, “Do you really have to lug that thing all around? Look at that red indentation you’re already getting on your shoulder.”

  “I want to have my laptop handy for any chance moments of inspiration.”

  “Suit yourself. Well, kiddo, today you’re on your own.” She stood up.

  I snorted Pepsi out my nose. “On my own?”

  “To explore Melaka by yourself. Solo travel is a crucial part of the travel experience. Meet me at MCT at dinnertime.”

  “MCT?”

  “Modern Component Technologies. Any trishaw driver knows where it is. See ya!”

  “But, wait! I don’t have plans! Or an itinerary!”

  “Lucky you!” And with that, Grandma Gerd threw her woven bag over her shoulder, adjusted her rice bag skirt, and stepped out into the traffic.

  The kedai proprietor gazed at me impassively as he tooth-picked his teeth. I gulped down the rest of my Pepsi—without ice—and shakily opened my guidebook. The print blurred before my eyes.

  Focus, Vassar! Focus! This isn’t a big deal! How hard could it really be? After all, you’re a Latin scholar! You have a 5.3 GPA!

  I thought of how apt today’s Latin quote was: Certe, Toto, sentio nos in Kansate non iam adesse. Loosely translated: “You know, Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  I frantically flipped through the pages and paused at a glossy photo of a trishaw driver.

  That’s what I’d do: hire a trishaw guy to peddle me around Melaka. Trying to be subtle, I pulled up my shirt and burrowed into my flesh-colored money belt. Supposedly, these things helped you be discreet about the amounts of money you were carrying around. But so far they seemed more awkward and inconvenient. The proprietor watched me with mild interest as I scattered a hundred ringgit across the floor of his establishment. After picking it all up, I painstakingly counted out the exact amount for my nasi lemak and Pepsi.

  “Terima kasih,” I said.

  “You bet,” he said.

  There was no problem procuring a trishaw—a mass of them converged upon me as I exited. The faces loomed in at me:

  “Trishaw, miss? Trishaw?”

  “Uh, how much?”

  “Cheap, very cheap! Where want to go?”

  “For a drive around Melaka—a scenic drive,” I said.

  “Sure thing,jump in, miss!”

  I chose the ancient specimen with arms and legs the size of broomsticks. I’d barely climbed onto the lumpy red vinyl seat when the old man sprang onto the rust-encrusted bike and away we went. His scrawny legs pumped like pistons. I removed my laptop to type some in-action descriptions—which was a touch precarious, thanks to all the potholes. But as Dad always said, typing was always more efficient than writing longhand.

  Sarah bumped her way down dirt roads, passing pigs and chickens. Unpaved roads … evident lack of city planning … disorganization … no structure … but charm … occasional whiff of sewage. Houses on stilts. Mirrors nailed to outside windows, which served to scare away evil spirits. Did she just see a giant monitor lizard crawl out of a drain into the river?

  Onward, the driver pumped parallel to the river. Past kedai after kedai made of rusty tin and clustered with locals and backpackers alike drinking kopi and bottles of Tiger Beer. A large house caught my eye. It was like any other traditional Malaysian kampong. But what captured my attention was the sign: MR. TEE-TEE’S VILLA: A LIVING MUSEUM, ENTRANCE FEE: YOUR GENEROUS DONATION! Another sign read: ALL OUR WELCOME!

  I quickly thumbed through my guidebook to find the page of Useful Malay Phrases.

  “Berhenti!”

  My driver stopped short as if he’d been shot.

  As he got off the bike and squatted next to the trishaw to smoke a cigarette, I searched The Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Malaysia, then cross-referenced it with the The Savvy Sojourner’s Malaysian Guidebook. Mr. Tee-Tee’s Villa wasn’t mentioned in either. Dare I risk it?

  A grungy college-age backpacker with green hair and a Canadian flag on his pack wandered up to the entrance. So there was another tourist. I took a deep breath: Come on, Vassar, be adventurous.

  A short yet dapper man, who couldn’t be a day under seventy, waved at us both from the doorway.

  I bid him good morning with a perky “Selamat pagi!”

  “Malaysian good, very good!”

  Look at how with just a little effort on my part, I can bond effortlessly with the locals, Sarah thought.

  “Everyone here speaks some English,” said the backpacker in a seen-it-all-done-it-all voice.

&nb
sp; I ignored him.

  “Welcome! Welcome to Mr. Tee-Tee’s Villa! I am Mr. Tee-Tee! Please enter my home!” he croaked at us. What few teeth he had were gold. His brown slacks and brown button-down shirt with button-down pockets gave the impression he was on safari.

  “Behold my humble home, which I have opened up for the enlightenment of our most welcome foreign guests. Please remove all shoes. I thank you.” His head barely came up to my shoulder.

  The backpacker slipped off his sandals in seconds, leaving me struggling to untie my Spring-Zs. Each room opened off an open-air central patio. The floors were teak (surprise), and the decor was a hodgepodge of traditional Malay and 1920s furniture.

  A sign read: PHOTOGRAPHY DISALLOWED.

  As the backpacker examined the black-and-white vintage photos on the wall, Mr. Tee-Tee nudged me and hissed, “You stay after he go. I give you present.”

  A present? I was intrigued. Mr. Tee-Tee was a bit strange—but a gift from another land? What a nice souvenir that would make.

  Mr. Tee-Tee gave us a detailed tour of his abode. The master bedroom was elaborately decked out in emerald green, camellia pink, and royal blue silks interwoven with gold thread. An enormous carved wooden bed with a canopy took up almost the entire room. Two ornate Malaysian gowns were spread across it, complete with gold slippers and ornate headdresses. Mr. Tee-Tee heard my soft intake of breath. He whispered, “Want to wear? You pretty-pretty in traditional Malaysian wedding gown. After he go, you wear gown, sit on bed, take photo!”

  I backed away. “No, thank you.”

  Mr. Tee-Tee looked hurt. “Many lady wear gown, sit on bed, take photo … . So sad, so sad. Where you from?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Ah, American. ‘Raindrops Keep Following on My Head’!” he crooned, his gold teeth glinting at me. His breath smelled like limes.